No Going Home
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Set post-Lucifer Rising. Sam and Dean try to deal with the growing distance between them. But, finding their way just might be their toughest battle yet. Co-written with geminigrl11. Rated T.
1. Chapter 1

_Tyranusfan A/N: This was inspired by a recent interview with Sera Gamble, in case anyone might have read it. For my money, I don't think S5 will go anything like this, but I like to think of this as a worst case scenario. _

_Thanks to geminigrl11 for co-writing it with me, and reigniting our respective muses after a long hiatus. Thanks to Phx for her quick beta skills. _

_Geminigrl11 A/N: Giving credit where it's due, I'm pretty sure "Cheney" as one of Bobby's dogs came from Maygra in her post S1 finale fics. If I'm wrong, I apologize to--and thank--the original author. I know for sure it wasn't either Tyransufan or me._

_Thanks, T-fan, for getting the idea to spur our muses back into action, and also_

_for dealing with my fairly epic procrastination. This is the longest thing I've written in forever and it was absolutely the puzzle piece approach that did the trick.  
_

_And thanks quarterwhore on LJ, whose most recent meta on Sam in S4 brought up some great points and also reminded me of the quote from "Rapture" (er--informed me, since I have not watched that episode)._

_We own nothing. But, we'd like to! Reviews craved._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

**No Going Home**

**By tyranusfan and geminigrl11**

_"Don't you get it? Forever. The demons will never stop. You can never be with your family. So, you either get as far away from them as possible. Or you put a bullet in your head, and that's how you keep your family safe. But there's no getting out and there's no going home." __  
_-Sam Winchester, The Rapture

Liz was gorgeous, especially in her flowing white dress. Radiant, stunning…all those Triple Word Score words. She was even more beautiful than when Dean had first met her. She grounded him, tonight. Everything was so overwhelming…more than he'd thought possible.

Dean had never seen so many flowers in his life. The reception hall was full of them. Flowers along the walls, in people's hair, petals on the floor and tables. It was a little much, but Liz had a thing for flowers, so Dean was happy to oblige.

The hundred or so guests surrounding them were almost all hers. Dean's side was represented by Bobby, Missouri, Cassie, Ellen and Jo. And, even Castiel, who was lingering by the far wall in a dark trench coat, eyeing something on the buffet table with curiosity.

A few invited others hadn't shown up for various reasons. Joshua and Jefferson were working a case in Canada, of all places. Rufus was in the hospital. The others who weren't there all had their reasons.

The biggest absence...well, Dean tried not to think too much about that, though it had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Dean felt his face fall a little, and quickly covered by fidgeting with his cuff links.

"Thinking about Sam again?" Liz whispered, keeping her smile in place as the ditzy photographer went for another angle on them.

Dean shook off his darkening thoughts. This was Liz's moment; he would do his best to let her enjoy it. He forced a grin. "Nah, just thinking about that cake. I love chocolate."

"Liar," she shot back playfully.

Keeping his own smile in place, he looked out over the guests. Bobby was laughing at something with Ellen---it was the happiest he'd seen the man in years. Things hadn't been exactly peaceful between them, especially since Sam---

Dean shook his head again.

Cassie and Jo were talking to one of the bridesmaids. Castiel had wandered toward Bobby, looking awkward and intrigued at the same time. He'd said something earlier about "the last human bonding ritual" he'd been present for. About two thousand years earlier. Dean wanted to hear that story later.

Something caught his eye when he scanned across the back of the room where the gift table sat---a flash of dark clothes, broad shoulders and too long hair that hadn't been there the moment before---but whoever or whatever it was disappeared before Dean could do a double take. He swept the gift area with his gaze, standing on his toes to see over some of the taller guests. The area around the table was clear.

Frowning, Dean strained to look over the crowd, certain he'd seen something out of place. Maybe it was just his hunting instincts, but he couldn't pass it off as a trick of the light. Dean turned to Liz and gave her a quick kiss, garnering a whoop from part of the crowd.

"I'll be right back, baby."

Liz looked confused, but nodded. The overpaid photographer kept snapping as if Dean hadn't stepped away. He shouldered through the crowd, muttering 'thank yous' and 'excuse mes' as he went, until he emerged at the gift table. There was no one there. No exits nearby that were easily accessed, just a wired fire escape door that would have sounded an alarm if opened.

Dean stepped closer to the table, noting an extra gift among the many gaudily wrapped presents. A small, plain white box had been placed in amongst the other boxes since Dean had last been over. A simple note was taped onto the top, reading "Dean" in block letters.

It was Sam's handwriting. Dean would have recognized it anywhere.

Dean glanced around. There was no way anyone could have gotten away so quickly from this side of the room. It was a long walk across an open dance floor to the exits and restrooms.

_Unless_....

He examined the fire door again. The wire leading from the hinge to the alarm was disconnected.

Flinging the door open, Dean rushed out into the night air. The fire escape led out onto a large, darkened, elevated patio deck behind the building. There was no one in sight, but metal steps led down onto a path that wound around the back wall, toward a side street. He followed that trail.

It was dark on that side of the building, just moonlight and the glow of distant city lights beyond the trees illuminating the grassy area. Dean jogged to the corner of the building and rounded it, only afterwards remembering that he was being a little reckless. Anyone could be out there, and he was unarmed, for once.

The wedding and monkey suit wasn't the only reason he felt self-conscious that night. He hadn't been all that comfortable not packing a weapon that night---old habits died hard---but Liz had specifically asked him not to, just this once, so he'd reluctantly agreed. Besides, they had an angel in the crowd. That should be protection enough from any possible danger.

He skidded to a halt when he saw the tall figure walking along the wall of the building, heading toward the street at a stroll. The figure was unmistakable, even in the shadows and with hair a little longer than Dean remembered.

"Sam?"

The tall shadow stopped abruptly, but didn't turn or reply. Dean took a few hesitant steps forward.

"Sam, is that you?"

The tall, broad shoulders hunched a little, the head dropping fractionally. "You don't have to throw me out. I'm leaving. I don't want to fight."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The first days after St. Mary's were a blur. Lucifer split the earth, shoved a shower of white light up through the cracks, and then was gone like he'd never come. That is, if they didn't count the blood staining the floor, the broken bodies of Lilith and Ruby's hosts, the wreck of the convent's small chapel.

Sam didn't remember anything from that moment of absolutely sickened awe to when they arrived at Bobby's. Dean commandeered Ruby's stolen car and drove like the devil was on their heels, which…well, he was. And that was all Sam processed. There were a heck of a lot of miles between Maryland and South Dakota, and nights and days must have passed, but they weren't even a blur. Just a blank.

Until the car was parked inside the junk yard's consecrated grounds, and they were staggering, worn and road-blind, onto the gravel of the driveway. Bobby's worried face and Cheney's soft growl were the first things to penetrate the fog.

Sam panicked a little at the sight of bared teeth from a dog trained to recognize demons. He flung both hands back, planting them against the sun-warmed metal of the car trunk for balance.

Which was when the memory hit.

His stomach dropped clear to his boots.

"Dean." The single word came out so strangled, even Sam couldn't understand it. Dean was already walking toward Bobby, hands moving, saying words that didn't carry far enough for Sam to hear. _"Dean."_

Dean finally turned, Bobby with him. He didn't try to decipher the looks on their faces. "You've gotta pop the trunk."

There was a pause, everything still. Waiting. Then Bobby's eyes widened as he gave Cheney a command in what sounded like German that had her immediately standing down, though she didn't move away. Dean's expression was dark and hooded as he stalked forward, keys in hand. Nauseated, Sam watched in mounting horror as Dean slid the key home and twisted it, lid creaking open.

The result was anti-climactic, in a way. The trunk was empty: no body of a helpless, terrified nurse who'd just had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there were bloodstains clawed up the sides and spattered over the bottom, dried black and accusing.

Dean closed the trunk hard and turned away. He didn't ask any questions, didn't say anything. But Sam had no doubt he knew…if not the specifics, then at least that Sam had one more sin etched on his soul, one more damning secret. He just wasn't giving Sam the opportunity to lie.

"We've got a real mess on our hands, Bobby," Dean snarled as he led the way to the house, not looking back.

Bobby did, though. One long, assessing gaze, marking Sam from head to toe. "Come on, kid. We got work to do."

There was a note in Bobby's voice, something quiet and sad. His shoulders drooped and he shook his head, sighing. He waited for Sam to almost catch up before following Dean inside.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The withdrawal never came, this time. Sam prepared for the worst, barricading himself in the panic room right away, huddled against the cot, waiting for the hallucinations to begin. But there was nothing. Besides a dull, throbbing ache in his head that never really lessened as the days passed, he never felt any physical affects at all.

He didn't know whether or not to be relieved. He'd felt the power coursing through him when he'd killed Lilith, twining like a serpent through his veins. It had flared bright as a megawatt bulb in the instant she'd collapsed, and all Sam could think now was that maybe it had burned itself out. A thin hope at best, but the only thing he had to hang onto at the moment.

Dean didn't check on him. He also wasn't waiting for him when Bobby convinced Sam to come back upstairs.

The first thing Sam did was crash on the couch, exhausted. He was asleep between one breath and the next and didn't wake until the next morning, still curled in his jeans and boots. Bobby prodded him into eating—not the most pleasant of tasks, since the nausea that had hit, waiting for the trunk to open and reveal a woman's corpse, had never gone away. It wasn't born of any jonesing for demon blood, though, but grief. Guilt.

Sam thought he'd tapped every layer of remorse it was possible to feel when Dean had died, torn to pieces in front of him. Turned out, that was just the beginning.

He stumbled over apologies—dozens—before Bobby finally told him enough was enough. As far as he was concerned, none of them had been blameless. Not Sam, not Dean, not Bobby himself, "and definitely not those bastard angels." He went so far as to apologize _to Sam_ for the way the whole intervention had gone down. A failure of epic proportions, in Bobby's mind; maybe the catalyst for things getting as bad as they did, in the end. But Sam couldn't accept it.

It was his fault, he knew. Everything. From Cold Oak to now, and even further back, if he were honest. Every decision, every reason, every choice had been his, and he'd been wrong. Catastrophically. Apocalyptically.

Appropriately, in Sam's mind at least, Dean seemed to agree with him. He moved through the house and grounds as a man—a hunter—on a mission that did not include Sam. He watched Sam like a hawk whenever he researched and followed when he went outside, even if it was just to stretch his legs on the porch. He vetoed all of Bobby's suggestions that Sam leave the grounds for any reason, even with company, but especially alone. And they didn't talk beyond necessities.

Sam caught a couple of raised-voice conversations between his brother and Bobby, though, always when he was supposed to be out of hearing range: walking up from the basement laundry, finishing early from wood-chopping or doing inventory for the salvage shop or one of the other tasks Bobby gradually started assigning him. He never tried to listen, didn't really want to know what they were talking about. But if Bobby was arguing for some kind of forgiveness or acceptance for Sam from Dean, Sam would have told him not waste his breath. Dean didn't owe him anything.

Despite the finality of that last voicemail, Dean hadn't killed him, hadn't hunted him. Had let him live. Had let him ride shotgun again, even if it wasn't the Impala, and brought him back to what they both considered a safe haven. After everything Sam had done, it was more than he had any right to ask for, much less expect.

As though to make up for it the distance between the brothers, Bobby went out of his way to be social. Which was…totally uncharacteristic. Even worrisome, if Sam thought about it too much, so he tried not to. Bobby pressed him to eat, to drink, to rest, to not think Dean was angry even when it was so obvious he was. He made excuses for Cheney's behavior and tried to coax Sam into giving the dog another chance, even though Sam couldn't bring himself to.

In short, Bobby was kind. Far kinder than Sam deserved. And instead of making him feel better, it only added to Sam's guilt.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Hunting was the great equalizer. Despite the guilt and the distance and the million unspoken issues between them, all it took was one visit from Castiel to have Sam and Dean both on the same page again in deed, if not in spirit.

Lucifer's ascension had come with a rise of demons even greater than when the Hell mouth was opened in Wyoming—scarily more powerful demons that had Bobby scrambling for older exorcism rites, that had them all carrying chrism-blessed weapons and multiple flasks of holy water. As bad, or maybe worse, Lucifer had also brought forth a plague of dark creatures that defied description but left a swath of destruction everywhere they went.

Castiel was on the run from Zachariah and his minions, but wasn't without resources. His own network of Host and Fallen kept him as informed as they could, and their intel often proved more useful than any research Bobby or Sam could do. Having Castiel riding in the back of the Impala, though, acting as their backup and sometimes even the lead, was more than disconcerting for Sam. The way the angel watched him as though he were some rare and interesting alien specimen wasn't exactly comfortable, either.

But Sam bore it in silence: the easy rapport Castiel had with his brother, the private conversations he seemed to interrupt every time he left the two of them for more than a few minutes. After all, for a year, the angel had been the only person—being—Dean could trust. It was understandable that their relationship had evolved into a partnership, a friendship. And it was good for Dean, having someone who truly had his back. Someone who could…save him…in ways Sam never could, no matter how hard he tried.

It was a comfort, even. Mostly.

It was _not_, however, a comfort the day Castiel pulled him aside with a heavy hand on his shoulder and an even more heavily intoned, "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam flinched under the scrutiny, under the weight of the word itself. He couldn't find the voice to ask what Castiel was sorry about. Not stopping Sam from killing Lilith? Not letting Uriel turn him to dust when he had the chance? Either way, Sam decided he'd rather not know, especially since he was sorry for pretty much the exact same reasons.

Castiel watched intently until Sam finally nodded in acknowledgement, hoping to break the spell. But it was Dean who brought the odd moment to a close, throwing the door open to say the Impala was gassed up and ready to go. They didn't speak of it again, as they loaded up their gear and headed south.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The warehouse was huge and practically pitch black, save the occasional sweep of a flashlight beam across the stacks of crates and boxes. The perfect hiding place for the demonic beast they were hunting. Some huge, black, clawed _thing_ that Lucifer had released from the Pit and sent rampaging across the countryside; that's about all Dean knew. Castiel had offered a few details, and Sam had dug up some research on the breed, but Dean was a little fuzzy on exactly what it was, and Sam's brief, monotone answers---all they got from the kid lately---hadn't told him much.

A regular exorcism was all it took to get rid of it, though, despite its size and strength.

Dean cast a quick look to either side. Cas was on his left, about fifty feet away, moving cautiously. Unlike them, he didn't need a flashlight.

To Dean's right, Sam was creeping along another aisle, about twenty feet away. He was scanning the darkness ahead, but studiously avoided looking in Dean's direction.

Dean cursed softly, and he shook his head. Things hadn't been exactly warm between them in the past few months. But, damn it, Sam deserved the "I told you so." His obsessive fixation on Lilith and blind trust of a demon had started the freakin' Apocalypse. The stubborn streak Sam had inherited from their father had screwed them all royally. Dean had every right to be pissed.

But he'd expected a little more fight from Sam after that blowout in Cold Spring. Not silence. Not depression so deep that it physically hurt to look his little brother in the eyes. Dean felt like he should do something, but he had no idea what, and Bobby wasn't exactly helpful when the conversation turned to Sam. The older hunter seemed to be mad at Dean for not handling it all better.

_What the hell am I supposed to do?_ _Sam started the End of the World!_ Was he supposed to take him out for ice cream?

Still, a voice in the back of Dean's mind kept---annoyingly---reminding him that Sam had broken the _last_ Seal, not the first one.

He shook his head to clear it. This wasn't the time or the place. Dean went back to scanning the inky shadows ahead. He saw little. It was like the flashlight beams were swallowed whole by them.

A noise to his left caused him to freeze mid-step and look toward Castiel's row. He sensed rather than saw that Cas and Sam had stopped as well.

Dean swept his light over a pallet closer to Castiel, pausing when something caught his eye. At first glance, it was just another collection of dark shapes, but when Dean looked closer, he saw the faint outline of something…not square. Not a crate. It was barely ten feet in front of him.

When the beam of light reflected off four blood red eyes, Dean reached for his shotgun, but the creature was already in motion before he could take aim. It moved like a demon, losing its shape and flowing like intelligent smoke. The billowing cloud raced at Castiel, surrounding the angel and tossing him like mere trash. Cas hit a stack, splintering crates and sending a plume of dust into the air, disappearing behind it.

Dean sent two rounds of salt at the beast, but it was already racing past him, making a beeline for Sam, who was heading Dean's way. Sam was batted aside just as easily as Cas, hitting hard and skidding across the floor. Dean had no time to check and see if his companions were all right. He fumbled in his haste to reload the shotgun.

A mantra of _damn it, damn it, damn it _chorused in his head. He'd been so caught up in thinking about Sam that he'd completely let his guard down and walked right up to this monster.

The brute was moving again, and Dean had just brought his weapon back up when he heard a shout.

"Dean! Look out!"

Dean froze. It took him a few long seconds to identify the voice as Sam's. It had been _weeks_ since the last time he'd heard his brother say anything without being asked a direct question, and Dean almost thought he was hallucinating. He glanced over, seeing the brother in question struggling to his feet.

He was so astounded to hear Sam call his name that he lost focus. By the time the warning registered, the eight-foot tall demon-thing was right on top of him. Dean didn't even have time to pull the trigger before he felt himself get lifted up and rammed into a stack of dusty boxes. Foul fumes from its mouth filled Dean's nose. It was straddling him.

He was lifted again, and as he was thrown into another stack, he heard the thing chuckling in a deep, echoing voice. At the same time, he heard similar unearthly tones inside his head.

_Chosen ones, indeed. You'll die slowly, weakling. Your pet angel, too_.

As Dean landed in another heap, the twin blasts of a shotgun filled the air. He spared a moment to look. Sam was back on his feet, running at the creature. The salt rounds did nothing. The beast was solid enough, holding Dean down and grinding him into the shattered pallets beneath, but where the gunshots hit, its body simply turned to smoke, allowed the salt to pass through then solidifying again immediately.

This wasn't going according to plan. With a feral growl, the giant raised its other arm, and the very solid-sounding _shink_ of razor-sharp claws extending was all Dean could focus on.

"Dean! _No!_"

The creature swiped downward, and Dean expected to feel his skin ripping apart, just like the Hell hounds all over again…but nothing happened. He looked up, finding the huge, glistening, black hand, with its claws hovering inches from his nose. It wasn't moving.

Dean was too stunned to feel any kind of relief, but he was glad Cas was back in the fight. He spared a moment to glance over, expecting to see the trench coat-clad angel standing behind his attacker, and did a double take.

Cas _was_ there, but quite a ways off, staring with what Dean assumed was the same dumbfounded look he was wearing himself.

Sam was closest to the creature, about ten feet away, holding out his hand, palm forward. He was shaking and sweating, and his face was contorted in deep concentration.

He had stopped the attack cold, mid-swipe.

Dean blinked. "Sam?"

It was impossible. Sam was using his powers, but he hadn't been anywhere near demon-blood since that night in Maryland, a good five months ago. Dean knew that for a fact. He hadn't used his powers since, even in self-defense. In fact, he'd taken a beating on more than one occasion virtually without fighting back at all, much to Dean's outrage. Some kind of stupid, self-hating penance.

A gasp from Sam drew Dean's attention back. His brother appeared to be having trouble breathing, but moved his hand slightly to the side, forcing the beast away from where Dean lay. A clench of his fist had the monster howling and convulsing. A few twists of Sam's wrist, and it was screaming, hellfire flashing inside its body, glowing through its chest and eyes.

Dean hauled himself into a sitting position, watching. Castiel walked closer slowly, observing the struggle with unabashed surprise.

Sam turned his hand over and opened it, pushing down, forcing the thing to its knees. It screamed---a horrible, inhuman sound---until it finally collapsed to the floor and exploded into a burst of rapidly vanishing fire.

As soon as it was gone, Sam dropped his hand, wheezing like he'd just surfaced from too long underwater. Dean could only stare. His brother still had his demon-killing powers. How---?

Sam seemed to recover, and briefly stared at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. When he looked up, a kaleidoscope of emotions filled his face, ranging from disbelief to shame.

Without a word, Sam moved to where Dean was sitting, placed his hands beneath Dean's arms and lifted him up. Sam was surprisingly strong, considering Dean hardly saw him eat anymore. "Sammy…?"

His brother patted him down, checking for injuries. He was back to avoiding Dean's gaze. Dean stopped him with a hand. "I'm okay. Thanks to you."

Sam paled, looking as though he might throw up on Dean's boots. He said nothing, just gave a curt nod and stepped back, reaching down and gathering Dean's dropped shotgun. Dean tried again.

"Seriously, I don't know where that came from, but you saved our asses." Dean hoped Sam would pick up the conversation. But, Sam just moved robotically, gathering up discarded weapons and their bags, and headed for the exit.

Dean watched him go, turning only when he heard Castiel step up next to him.

"That was unexpected."

"You think?" Dean retorted. The angel glanced at him about as expressively as Sam just had. Dean shook his head and headed outside.

Sam was already in the Impala, sitting in a ball in the back seat, holding his head. Apparently, using the powers still gave him headaches, though Dean noticed there was no accompanying nosebleed or any other signs of distress. Sam looked more humiliated than anything.

He certainly didn't need to be, he'd saved Dean's life in there. _And why the Hell__is he in the backseat?_

"Sam, you okay?" Dean asked, sticking his head in the driver's side door.

Sam muttered something almost unintelligible that sounded a lot like "I'm sorry," but didn't look up. Dean frowned at that. Sam had nothing to be sorry for---in this case---his freaky powers had saved the day. He wanted to say that out loud, but before he could, Sam rolled away, turning to bury his face in the back of the seat.

Whatever conversation they might have engaged in was over before it started. Dean stood, looking over the roof of the car. Castiel was gone, no doubt flying off into thin air as he was prone to. _Great_.

With a quiet sigh, Dean got in the car, reached over to the bag in the floor and got Sam a water bottle, which was ignored when he lowered it between Sam and the leather seat.

It was going to be a long trip back to Bobby's.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean never mentioned Sam using his powers again. It was like the whole event in the warehouse had never happened, just as things had been after Sam had killed Samhain. He didn't seem disapproving, which Sam supposed was a relief. But even though Dean's restrictions on Sam's movements eased considerably—not freaking out when Sam went to grab a soda from the vending machines was a _good _thing—he seemed to watch Sam even more carefully now. Like Sam was a time bomb, waiting to go off. Like Dean had to be prepared to stop him when he did.

In the back of his mind, stuffed way down where he tried to pretend it never happened, Sam once again heard the echo of Dean's voicemail to him on that horrible day in Maryland. _I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam—a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back._

There really wasn't. Nothing could ever be the same again.

Sam didn't blame Dean for being wary, though. For being ready. In most ways, Sam was ready, too. He didn't want to kill himself—even if the thought had crossed his mind more than once—but an actual execution, punishment for his crimes, seemed fitting. After all, he was a murderer now. In cold blood. _For _blood.

The only thing that kept him from a full-on death wish was not wanting it on Dean's conscience, no matter how much Sam deserved it. And the growing certainty that there would be no white light at the end of the tunnel.

A demon had refused Sam's soul once. Had laughed in his face and told him it was worthless, that Sam was exactly where he was supposed to be. There'd been a subtext Sam refused to hear at the time: that he was destined for Hell anyway, even if the timetable took a little longer. And he was pretty sure there would be no angels braving Perdition to rescue him.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The demon attacks were escalating, even though Lucifer had yet to make an appearance. Bobby was of the opinion that he was biding his time, building toward some epic event and trying to wear them all out in the meantime.

If that was the strategy, it was working. Sam was exhausted. He knew Dean and Bobby were, too, and even Castiel had taken on a rough-worn look that aged him while at the same time making him seem disturbingly more human.

A string of hunts kept them on the move almost constantly. They'd abandoned the salvage yard as a base of operations, Bobby asking Joshua's grown sons to keep an eye on the place while he maintained a library in the tool chest of his pickup that rivaled the Impala's weapons stash. The jobs were too big, now, and coming at them too quickly for Dean and Sam alone to keep up with. They split up when they could—Sam assigned to Dean or Bobby, though never Castiel—and joined forces when they couldn't, which became increasingly common.

Sam tried not to use his exorcism powers again, but it proved impossible. The first time was actually for himself, which made it even harder. Bobby was shouting at him and his vision was going dark around the edges, and then—much like that first experience with telekinesis in Max Miller's closet—the force just seemed to push out of him, without his mind's consent.

In the blink of an eye, the suffocating pressure on his trachea was gone, as was the demon. The host's body was nothing but a curled shell on the floor.

"Dammit, kid, what the Hell were you waiting for?" Bobby's hand was almost painful, gripped around Sam's bicep and hauling up.

"I didn't…I didn't…" The words wheezed out of him, stuttering to a halt as he started coughing, hand massaging his bruised throat.

"Sam, you can't just…" Bobby shook his head, easing Sam to lean against the wall until he had his breath back. "What if that had been me? What if it had been Dean? What would you have done then?"

The words hit like a punch. "Dean doesn't want me to…"

"He doesn't want you dead, Sam."

Sam dropped his eyes to the ground, still feeling weak on his feet, shaky. And it wasn't all just the near-death experience. "I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Bobby didn't respond at first. Sam didn't dare to look up.

"Listen to me, kid." Bobby's voice was firm but not unkind. "You made some mistakes. Big ones. There's no getting away from that."

Sam's stomach lurched, and he tried to swallow, to hold the nausea down. "I…I know. That's why I—"

_"Listen."_ The tone brooked no argument. "There's no getting away from it," Bobby repeated. "But this is war. And sometimes in war, there are casualties. The world is at stake, here. And we're the ones with everything to lose. Whatever mental block you've got against this ability of yours, get over it. You have a weapon, and you need to use it."

There were a dozen arguments on the tip of Sam's tongue. But he didn't voice them.

The only thing he knew for certain, after this past year, was that when it came to making decisions, he was pretty much an utter failure. Every time he thought he knew what he was doing, thought he was acting for the greater good, he was wrong. His judgment wasn't just shaky but inherently flawed, so if Bobby told him he needed to use his powers, what could he say? It was selfish not to, really. A foolish attempt to get back into Dean's good graces. A futile attempt to try to save his own soul.

So, the next time they were pinned—this time all four of them, with Castiel and Dean flanked on one side and Bobby and Sam on the other, demons advancing, no escape, every tactic they'd used a failure—Sam didn't hesitate. He took a deep breath, raised both hands, and concentrated.

It took a lot more out of him than any banishment he'd done under Ruby's guidance, leaving him limp and panting. But it also sent all five demons screaming back to Hell. He couldn't look at the crumpled bodies or the blood—_especially _the blood. Wouldn't let himself wonder why the hosts hadn't survived these last few times, even though he'd once trained _so hard_ to get to the point where they did.

"Sam…_God_." Dean's voice sounded hollow, and to Sam's ears, horrified.

He hunched his shoulders, turning away so he wouldn't have to see the look he assumed would be on Dean's face…any of their faces. It took a while for them to follow him to the Impala; Sam tried to spend the time thinking about anything but innocent bodies being salted and burned. When they finally joined him, all was silent. Dean reached out a hand to him; tentative, shaking a little. But when Sam couldn't quite contain a flinch, he let it fall, shook his head and started the car. They drove, leaving another abandoned warehouse and another skin-of-their-teeth battle in the dust.

An emptiness opened up inside Sam, starting in his chest and radiating down to his stomach, his hands, his legs. _A monster, Sam…A monster. _He took a breath, pulled the emptiness closer, wrapped himself in it.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The final battle was every bit as epic as a scene from _Constantine_, a movie Sam thought was cool once, some Friday movie night back at Stanford. They ended up as foot soldiers—even Dean, despite all Zachariah's predictions and prophecies—while the Heavenly Host fought Lucifer, angels against Fallen angel.

Zachariah himself was nowhere to be found, when all was said and done, and though Anna wouldn't tell them everything, it was imagined he'd met the same fate as Uriel. Pride, especially angelic pride, did goeth before a Fall.

Dean was giddy. He peeled out of Bobby's with a spray of gravel, headed on a beer-and-essentials run, coming back with enough six packs for a week-long binge and enough food for a small army. He kept clapping Castiel on the back and trying to get him to try Cheez Doodles, something Castiel seemed to regard with dismay. He cranked up Bobby's old AM radio, singing along with Elvis and the Big Bopper and a slew of other singers Sam would have never guessed he knew.

Bobby started singing along at one point, which was…a sign of the Apocalypse, for sure, if they hadn't just lived through it. And after a half-dozen choruses—and a couple of bottles of Killion's Red—Castiel was starting a bob his head in time, smiling in a way that said he wasn't completely sure what he was smiling about, but going along with it just the same.

Sam tried. He really did. He clinked bottles with them and drank a toast and reached deep within himself to find some spark of hopefulness or good feeling. But there was nothing.

He claimed tiredness after what was hopefully enough time to not look suspicious. And he _was_ tired, but it was more that he needed the space. To try and get his head together, to figure out how he was going to go on in this next, and maybe final, chapter of his life.

Dean stumbled into the bedroom long after midnight, chuckling to himself as he stumbled over the rug, bumped into the footboard, and finally collapsed with a satisfied sigh on his bed. "We're going to Disney World, Sammy," he announced, and then followed it immediately with a snore.

Sam stared up at the ceiling. Whispered a thank you to…whoever might be listening Up There. _Thank you for keeping Dean safe. Thank you for keeping the world safe. Thank you for not letting me ruin everything._

Dean was up surprisingly early, considering Sam thought he'd be suffering from the mother of all hangovers. Instead, he'd joined Bobby and Castiel at the breakfast table, hollering for Sam until he was in the kitchen, too.

"I'm retired," he stated. "You're both witnesses." He aimed his mug at Bobby and Castiel in turn. "And you." He turned to look at Sam, who was braced against the door frame, not quite sure what to expect. "You are, too. We're done with hunting. We're going to get jobs and pay bills and live like normal people."

Sam felt his jaw drop, watched Bobby's do the same as Castiel stared on inquisitively. He wasn't sure what to say, not positive this wasn't some hallucination, or if maybe Dean was still drunk after all. "Uh, Dean…what about—"

"Nope." Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee. "We're done. No more cases, no more research, no more angels—no offense, Cas—or demons or living out of motel rooms. We've done our time. We survived the freaking Apocalypse. That's enough."

He set his mug down with a _thunk_ and slid his chair back, stretching as he stood. Sam was still in the doorway and Dean paused, standing next to him just long enough to tap his fist on Sam's shoulder. A cap on the conversation; no more discussion needed. And then Dean disappeared out the front door, whistling.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam had a hard time doing anything but waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't seem possible that Dean was serious, that he was really done not only with hunting but with the vagabond life he'd seemed to love even apart from it. At the very least, there were some big logistical issues to work out, like the small fact that they were both legally dead, Dean twice over. Things like not having a valid Social Security card or driver's license or credit of any kind or a clue what to do with the rest of their lives.

Although, maybe that last part was just Sam. Dean seemed to be the man with the plan. He "knew a guy" who could help with their documentation; apparently, Victor Henrickson had started the process before he was killed. He had a part-time job with the garage in town by the end of the second day and another one at the Fish and Game Club by the end of the week, teaching gun safety and self-defense. He set an alarm in the mornings and packed his lunches in brown paper bags, and sometimes, all Sam could do was stare, wondering if he was back in the universe Zachariah had kidnapped them into. Ready to grab a fire poker again if someone even mentioned blue screens or frozen keyboards or jammed printers.

He finally let himself believe things really could be good when Dean invited him out to play pool on Saturday night. It was just a straightforward set of games between the two of them, no hustling. They didn't talk much as they worked the table, blending into the crowd of regulars, but it was comfortable. They closed the bar down, not even tipsy despite the number of rounds they'd polished off, including last call.

The night was like a hundred others they'd shared over the years, not particularly notable in any way. But as Sam lay in the dark, listening to Dean settle, breathing slowly, he thought, _Maybe. _Maybe things were going to be okay after all. Maybe Dean had really forgiven him. Maybe the specter of Ruby and demon blood had faded enough for them to just be…brothers again. Maybe this was how things were meant to be—not the vision of normal he'd dreamed once upon a time with Jess and law school, but something simpler. Easier. Maybe even better.

It was the first good night's sleep he had in a year.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

When he woke, sunlight already bathed the room, full bright and yellow, rather than the pale glow of just-past-dawn he was used to. Sam yawned and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he stared at the clock, marveling at having slept into the afternoon.

There were voices coming from downstairs, cadence rising and falling like waves. Sam made his way to the bathroom, and when he came out, they were still going. Louder this time; the sounds of an argument.

"…don't care, Bobby! You know as well as I do, that demon blood isn't coming out of him. I tried…"

Dean's voice quieted, words too soft now for Sam to decipher. Didn't matter, though. Sam had already heard enough to make him feel a little dizzy, the weight of the other shoe dropping hitting harder than he'd expected. Especially after letting himself _hope_…

"…can't understand how you…sending him away…"

Bobby that time. And then Dean again. "…think I want this? …did everything I could to…can't…go on..."

Bobby's answer was muffled.

"…scared all the time. You don't know what it was like when he…"

The voices continued, calmer now and heading toward the door. Sam heard it squeak open and shut and then silence.

He sagged against the wall, all his strength completely gone. His legs eventually gave out and he slid down, uncoordinated and limp.

Dean was afraid of him. Dean…couldn't go on with Sam there. The demon blood and everything that had come with it, the lies and the anger between them and _God, _that last fight, slamming Dean into mirrors and walls and then curling his hands around Dean's neck and _squeezing_…

How could he expect Dean to forget? To _forgive_? How could anyone? What Sam had done…it was too much.

Bobby had told him, hadn't he? Dean had rescued him from the fire, given him a reason to keep going after Jess, had been his partner and his…his _friend_ and his _brother. _And Sam had betrayed him at every turn. Had messed up so huge it had brought Lucifer to Earth and wrecked the last remnants of their family in every way possible. Had been a lifelong burden Dean was fighting to get out from under.

_There's no getting away from it._

And, yeah. There wasn't. Not ever. But he could at least get himself away from Dean. Let Dean feel like he was safe again, let him finally live a life without the millstone of his brother around his neck anymore. That, Sam could do.

Somehow, he found the strength to stand again. To pack a bag and write a note and leave the house, sight unseen. Wishing he could offer just one more apology and knowing it wouldn't make a difference.

Cheney bounded up as he headed for the road, a single duffel over his shoulder. Sam had finally made peace with her when he'd let himself realize she'd only ever growled at Ruby's car—the trunk especially—not him. She was a good dog; calm but fiercely protective. He scratched behind her ears. "Look out for him, okay?"

He patted her once, then shooed her off, walking once again. And though it physically hurt not to, he didn't look back.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"I don't like this any more than you do, Bobby," Dean said, heading back toward the house. They'd spent hours, it seemed, out in the garage, hashing out Dean's plan to help Sam. He was tired of debating, and he really needed Bobby to have his back on this. "But, he's not getting any better and I really think Missouri can help him."

Bobby sighed, stopping by the porch steps. "I know she can. Hell, she's the closest thing you're gonna find to a psychiatrist that can handle demons and psychic powers. But, leaving him there---"

"I know. I hate to do it, but if I stay there with him, it'll just hold him back. He won't open up around me. I've seen it in his eyes. He doesn't really believe that I can accept him as he is."

Dean knew Bobby was right. Sam would be devastated, but there was no choice. Missouri could get in Sam's head, and see things Sam would never show him or Bobby.

"He's gonna think you're abandoning him. This could all backfire in the worst way." Bobby replied grimly.

"I'm _not_ abandoning him, Bobby. I just want him to be okay. I want us to move on, finally. But, he can't do that carrying all this guilt around. He blames himself for everything that's happened, and every time I even get close to the subject, he shuts down. He needs to know that he's not a monster…that _I_ don't think he's a monster."

Bobby sighed. "I guess you're right. When are you gonna tell him?"

Dean glanced up at the house, almost dreading what was coming next more than any hunt or battle. He didn't want to see the look that he knew would be on Sam's face when he found out he was going away for a while. Dean steeled himself. "Right now."

Sam needed a big brother. Deserved one. Dean was going to be one, and get Sam the help he needed, no matter how much the process might hurt both of them. They'd been apart so long already. Too long. He'd fought his war, and now he just wanted his family back. Maybe Missouri could succeed in putting Sam back together where Dean, Bobby and Castiel had failed.

The sun was already getting low in the sky. They'd had one hell of a night on the town, but surely, his brother should be awake by now. Bobby headed for the front of the house to feed the dog while Dean marched upstairs. All the doors were shut in the hallway. There was no indication that Sam was awake, yet. Well, Dean was a good alarm clock.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself, and flung the door to the bedroom open. "Yo! Sleepyhead! You gonna sleep all---" Dean stopped, glancing around the empty room. "---day? Sammy?"

He looked back down the hall. The shower wasn't running. The bathroom light was off. "Sam?"

Turning back toward the beds, Dean immediately noticed something amiss. Sam's bag was gone. The bed was made with the expected precision…and there was a piece of paper by the bedpost.

Dean stepped forward, a sick feeling building inside, even though his brain hadn't caught up with what was going on. He saw Sam's handwriting on the note, perfectly spaced despite there being no lines on the paper.

_Dean,_

_You're right, the demon blood will never come out of me. I'll never be the brother you need, and you deserve better than to babysit a freak for the rest of your life. You did your part, and more. I wish I could take back all the things I did, all the lies, but I can't. I have too much to atone for, and you shouldn't be dragged along, cleaning up my messes. I can't---I won't do that to you._

_I know you're afraid of me, and I want you to know I don't blame you for that. I could never blame you. You've given up everything for me your whole life, and the only thing I can do in return is let you live yours, finally. You're right to send me away._

_I'm so sorry. For everything. I don't know if you believe that, or if it even matters, but I am._

_I love you, Dean. If you believe nothing else I've said these past few years, please believe that._

_-Sam_

Dean reread the letter twice. _I know you're afraid of me. The demon blood will never come out_. _You're right to send me away_. Sam must have overheard them talking. But, he must have only heard the wrong parts--- _No. Oh, God, no_.

"Bobby!" Dean was running down the stairs before his thoughts even processed completely. He landed at the bottom of the stairs at a dead run and headed out the front door, toward Bobby and the road.

The older hunter looked up from Cheney's food dish in surprise when Dean came barreling out of the house.

"He's gone! Sam's gone!"

"What?"

"He overheard us talking," Dean panted, waving the note in the air between them. "But, just bits and pieces…."

Bobby actually paled as the realization sank in. "Ah, Hell." He looked around the yard. "None of the cars are missing, so he must have left on foot. Go get the Impala. We'll split up and search the road."

Dean was already moving. He had trouble wrapping his brain around this. Sam must have came in on the absolute worst part of the argument, heard everything out of context. Of all the horrible, horrible luck.

The only kind Winchesters had, apparently. Dean should have known better to expect anything else.

He practically stripped the gears as he peeled out of the driveway, but he ignored the protesting screech of metal. Sam couldn't have gotten far. Dean had to find him before the kid did something stupid.

Before the only family he had left fell apart.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_We own nothing. But, we'd like to! Reviews craved._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

**No Going Home**

**Chapter 2**

Sam got as far away from Bobby's as he could the first night. He felt like his insides were being twisted and crushed, but…it was better like this. Dean deserved a chance to be free of him, to drop the burdens their father and Heaven had laid on him. Dean wouldn't have to stop him anymore…he'd take himself out of the game.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like he was doing the right thing, even if it hurt like Hell. Dean would be relieved he was gone, would be able to have the life he wanted. One better than Sam could ever give him. It wasn't fair for Sam to stay, to lock Dean into guarding over him forever, just so Sam could pretend they still---

"So, you never told me your name, kid...."

The driver's voice jolted Sam out of his morose thoughts. He blinked, trying to get his bearings. "John. John Campbell."

"You wantin' to go far?"

Sam looked out the windshield. The highway stretched out beyond the range of the semi's headlights. There was nothing in front of them as far as Sam could see.

It was a good metaphor.

He doubted the truck driver would understand. "What's your next stop?"

"Topeka, then Lawrence."

"Perfect," Sam nodded. "Lawrence, if you don't mind. I can pay."

The old man shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It'll be nice to have someone to talk to on this run for a change."

Sam doubted he'd be very good for conversation. He'd probably end up paying anyway, if that was the measure.

Hitchhiking was the last thing John Winchester ever recommended. Better to steal a car. Stolen cars weren't usually crazy, and wouldn't leave you dead in some ditch. Many humans weren't as reliable on those terms. Given how deeply ingrained that lesson was in them, Sam should never have considered traveling like this.

Then again, he had little money, and it wasn't like he had been thinking all that clearly. His brain was tangled in the words he'd heard earlier. He'd really started to think everything could be okay, been stupid enough to think he could escape his past, and the shock of reality checking him left him reeling. He'd stumbled into a truck stop a few miles from Bobby's, and hopped a ride with the first trucker he found.

Sam wasn't completely stupid, though. He kept his right hand curled around the .45 in his jacket pocket the whole ride, and a flask of holy water was in his left pocket, just in case.

"You got family in Lawrence?" The old man asked, drawing Sam's attention back to the cold, bouncing truck cab.

Sam shook his head. "No. Not for a long time."

The driver frowned slightly. "So, why there?"

And…yeah, why? The answer slowly dawned on Sam as the road rushed by. _Redemption_. He'd hurt so many people. Wrecked his brother's life. Drove away the one person he would have died for…and there was nothing he could do to fix that. The damage was too great. The only thing left was to see if his soul was still salvageable, something he truly doubted.

And the truth was, if that was the case, he didn't want Dean to have to see that. He'd burdened his brother enough for one lifetime. This last mission was his alone.

"To start over," Sam replied softly. "And maybe not hurt anybody this time."

If the driver wondered what that meant, he didn't ask.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean's supposed retirement fell by the wayside as soon as he realized Sam wasn't just a pick-up ride away. He hit the road running, chasing every lead he could find to bring him to his brother. Sometimes alone, sometimes with company; always hunting. But this time, though he took random jobs here and there as he came upon them, his quarry was singular. Sam.

He couldn't let Sam just slip through the cracks, not with everything that had happened. Not when he knew, from the few sentences Sam had scrawled, that his little brother was out there, lost and broken. Alone, and thinking Dean wanted him that way. Wanted Sam away from him.

It was hard to understand how things had become so bad between them, right under Dean's nose. He'd known Sam was a mess, but he'd thought he was at least helping a little. And he'd had a plan, if only Sam had trusted him enough to let him put it into action.

Then again, how could Sam trust him, really? It wasn't like he'd actually discussed the plan with Sam as it developed. It wasn't like he'd asked for input. And it sure as Hell wasn't like Dean had trusted Sam before. Not even when Sam had begged.

Dean was still kicking himself over that part. Of all the mistakes he'd made—and there'd been plenty, for all that he'd had his share of extenuating circumstances—probably the worst was not going with Sam when he'd asked. Being part of Ruby's plan—seeing Sam and Ruby working together—had made Dean sick. But in the time since, Dean realized that going might have been the best thing he could have done.

If he had, Zachariah might not have been able to pull him out into that angels-be-damned green room. Sam might not have bled that nurse. Dean might have found a way to take Ruby out long before it came down to killing Lilith and breaking the final seal.

He'd never know for sure. All he knew was that he had to find Sam. Had to be with him again. Had to make it better.

But it proved to be no simple task. Days rolled into weeks, which rolled into months, and he was still no closer. And the trail grew steadily colder.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam opened his fist and relaxed as the last of the black smoke left the girl's body and vaporized against the floor of the factory. He moved forward cautiously to check her pulse. She was alive, but pretty bad off. He'd have to call the paramedics once he was outside.

It had taken half a dozen more exorcisms for Sam to finally re-train himself, to figure out what he was doing wrong. Most of them were easy, feel out the demon, where it was, how deep it hid, and pull it out. Simple. They usually died in the struggle and the victims were none worse for wear. But, some demons were stronger than others.

Exorcising those was a more like a chess game than a wrestling match. Brute force wasn't the best approach, especially if the host was still alive. Sam had to untangle the person from the demon, and gently ease it out of the body. Like that _Operation_ game he'd had when he was six. Those demons just went back to Hell. Killing them inside a person was too dangerous.

Heading downstairs to the factory floor, Sam let his mind wander. He was surprised, in hindsight, that he'd ever made it this far. In fact, he nearly hadn't.

That first few days after fleeing Bobby's had been the hardest. After the uncomfortable eight hour ride in the semi, he'd found a secluded, condemned house in the outskirts of Lawrence and barricaded himself in the basement. He was so far off the radar that no one would find him, but he had found that without the distraction of the Apocalypse, or doing chores around the salvage yard, he had nothing to keep his mind off what he'd lost.

Everything. His old life was gone. His few remaining friends. Dean.

Hell, even his humanity was gone, eroded away by blood and lies.

Lonely and hopeless didn't begin to describe that feeling. By the end of the first twenty-four hours, Sam already had the barrel of his .45 against his chin. He couldn't pull the trigger, though. His brain froze on him as he knelt on the cold concrete, stuck on one repetitious thought.

No Heaven awaited him. No reunion with mom and dad, or Jess, or anyone. Hell. Fire and blood and pain. Hell waited for him.

It wasn't really all that different from what he had already, but it scared him so damned much. He wondered if that had been what Dean had felt that night in Indiana. Wondered if Dean had been so completely paralyzed by fear before the hounds reached him.

Sam doubted it. Dean was a better man than he'd ever been. A hero. Heroes didn't sob in terror like little boys, then back down from pulling the trigger. They didn't drop their guns and curl into balls, wondering when their lives had gone so completely wrong.

Dean certainly hadn't. Sam had been there.

He'd stayed on the floor that way until dawn, and it was in those first rays of light through the ground-level window that Sam realized he was going about it all wrong. Again. His death wouldn't balance the books. His life was worthless; the crossroads demon had already told him that. There would have to be another way.

His curse. His own freakish, tainted body. The abilities which had made him the perfect weapon for Ruby and Zachariah. That had helped Dean, even minutely, halt the Apocalypse.

He'd tried before, with Ruby, to turn his curse into a gift, but his attempts had failed miserably. That had been selfish, a foolhardy attempt to get into God's good graces, and prove something to Dean. Plus, Ruby hadn't really been helping him, anyway, just using him. Like one would use any weapon.

What Sam needed to do was turn the curse against the enemy. Not for his own sake, but for others'. Nothing could save his soul from damnation. Nothing could repair his broken life. But, he could save as many people as he could. Like he'd tried to before Cold Oak and Jake, back during his first chance at life.

Not for revenge or obsession. Not for any self-serving goal. There was no Light waiting for him, except Hellfire. He would take out as many demons as he could before the end. Mop up the last remnants of Lucifer's army, the ones that had gone to ground after the final battle. Make the world safe for normal people…for Dean. It would be his penance.

Sam stepped out into the night air, pushing aside his memories and dialing 9-1-1. He told the operator about the five victims and where to find them, neatly skirting the details, and hung up before they could trace the call.

He had nearly reached the Volkswagen Corrado he'd commandeered in Kentucky when something slammed into him from behind. Sam didn't have time to bring up his arms, and his head smashed right into the back window, shattering it. He slid backward, dazed. His left eye blacked out a bit, and when he touched his face, he realized why. His hand came away bloody. He looked up with his right eye, finding a burly security guard, easily twice his size, leering down at him.

_Wait…the two firemen, the secretary, the janitor, the factory foreman_…. He thought there'd only been five.

"Sammy Winchester…" it sneered. "I heard you'd gone off the reservation. What happened? Big bro finally kick you out? Or did you just run out of ways to send him to Hell for you?"

Sam bristled, but calmed himself. The demon was just needling him. He didn't bother interacting with them anymore. No demon had anything to say that he wanted to hear. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.

His adversary stared at him, hesitating. "What? No whining? No tearful protests? 'Don't talk about the almighty Dean that way!' Wah, wah!"

Sam pushed himself to his feet, fighting off a wave of dizziness and nausea, and raised his hand toward the possessed man. This demon, despite its bravado, was inexperienced. It didn't know how to intertwine itself in a host effectively; it just pulled the human's strings like a puppet. The exorcism went quickly.

Sam rarely spoke to them anymore. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to anyone. Regardless, he wasn't going to waste his breath on demons. They were running scared, desperate. After a very long time, now with Lucifer and the higher-level ones gone, they were on the endangered species list.

The guard survived. Sam used his sleeve to wipe the blood out of his eyes and checked himself in the mirror. His face was a mess. A long, bloody gash ran up his forehead ending somewhere in his hair. It hurt like a bitch, and he was certain he had a concussion. He went fuzzy for several seconds, or minutes, before he shook himself. The ambulance and police would be there any moment now. He had to leave.

Sam had to take a moment to think, but then he remembered he was in South Carolina. Just a few miles from Rock Hill, in fact…where he'd rescued a doctor a few months before.

Pediatrician. Whatever. Doctor was a doctor. Normally, he'd stitch up his own wounds, like usual, but he was already getting woozy and he doubted he'd stay conscious long enough to do the work, if he even could.

He slammed the car into drive and got on the road. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles could be seen just over the hill behind the factory, but Sam was around the corner and away before anyone noticed him. He stopped a few miles down the road, just long enough to tear a strip of his sleeve to wrap around his bleeding forehead.

The doctor wasn't far. He just needed to stay conscious long enough to get there. Easier said than done.

It was like old times, on the run from the law. Sam almost smiled at the similarities. He tried not to think about the past any more than he had to. Trying now only brought memories of Dean and meatball surgery in any number of ramshackle motels. Only brought old pain to the surface. His brother was gone, hopefully living a happy life somewhere, far away from his screwed up sibling, if there was any justice.

Sam missed him. So badly sometimes, he couldn't even think straight. He would give anything to be at Dean's side again. Happy---

He pushed the thought aside and focused on getting to the doctor's place before the bandage soaked through. Sam couldn't slow down. His penance could never be over. Not after what he'd unleashed on the world. On his family.

Monsters didn't get happy endings.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean silently nursed his beer, leaning on the bar, trying to tune out the crappy country music and pay attention to the hushed words being spoken right behind him.

The run-down bar in Springfield was not a worthy successor to Harvelle's, but it was a heavily trafficked crossroads for a lot of hunters, and a decent source of information.

So long as you kept your head down and your ears open.

The two older men had come in an hour before, and Dean made them as hunters immediately. The bearing, the way they kept their hands close to pockets and concealed weapons---it wasn't hard to deduce. From the conversation so far, they specialized in demons and hellspawn-types, but it wasn't their hunting preferences that had caught Dean's attention. One was a local, the other an occasional partner who'd just come into town from somewhere.

"I don't know. From what I heard it wasn't any exorcism. The demon died. The guy was fine, though, just spent the night in the hospital."

"Sounds like that psychic freak again. That's the fifth or sixth one I've heard about this year."

"Well, you ask me, he's a blessing in disguise, whoever he is. Running demons down and being able to kill 'em? More power to him, I say."

"Please, it's a monster, just like the rest. Just because it kills demons doesn't change anything. It's not _human_. Besides, what makes you think it's a 'he?' I heard it was female."

"Friend of mine talked to the last guy, a lawyer or something. He said the person that got the demon out of him was a man. Tall guy, long hair, kinda scary lookin', but a normal man."

Dean tried to lean closer as casually as he could, even though his heart was racing. The person they described certainly sounded like Sam. It was the first lead he'd had in two months. If his luck held, maybe he'd get a direction.

"I found some signs over near Clarkstown. Omens. You think this psychic, whoever it is, will turn up there?"

The other man took his time answering, but Dean didn't dare turn to see why.

"Who knows? I hope he does. The enemy of my enemy, you know?"

Mr. Pessimism didn't sound convinced. "Hm. You know we're never that lucky, right? Maybe we should check this guy out."

"I'm old Willie, I'll take my chances." They laughed at that. "Besides, Curtis needs us down south, remember?"

The conversation faded after that, both men turning their attention to their food and whatever their buddy Curtis wanted from them. Dean silently paid his tab and left the bar. He stepped out into the chilly night air and pulled his coat closed.

Clarkstown. Only twenty miles away. Dean cast a glance back at the bar as he unlocked the car door. Something bothered him about what he'd heard. He couldn't place it. The facts seemed plain enough. The person they described certainly sounded a lot like Sam. It was the best lead he'd had in months; he had to follow it.

The Impala's door opened with a deep metallic groan. Dean frowned. She really needed a good overhaul---had for a while now---but he didn't have the heart for it for some reason. His baby was getting old. Worn out. She didn't purr for him the way she once did. She felt less and less like _home_ every day.

One look at the cold, empty passenger seat told him why. The car wasn't complete. Dean knew how that felt…he wasn't whole either. Maybe the Impala was missing Sam as badly as he was. Maybe she was breaking apart at the seams now that her family was broken.

Dean smirked and shook his head in disgust. "Writing poetry about an old car, now, Dean?"

He couldn't stop staring at that empty seat, though. It finally clicked what had bothered him about the two hunters in the bar. The banter. The easy way they spoke to each other, bounced ideas. He'd felt the camaraderie even just listening in, and it had made him sick to his stomach.

It reminded him of Sam. Before Ruby. Before Lucifer and angels and all the crap they'd had to deal with. Before Cold Oak. Before all of Azazel's and Lilith's schemes had driven a wedge between them.

Dean would do anything to take another trip back in time. Maybe he could warn himself, or Sammy.

But, then, that hadn't worked with his mother, so it probably wouldn't work this way, either. Castiel had told him destiny couldn't be changed. Dean hadn't understood then, but maybe he just meant that the past couldn't be changed. What was done was done. Nothing he had said to Mary Campbell had mattered, in the end.

That was the worst part. _His_ words, _his_ actions, had driven Sam to run away. Bobby was right about that. Dean had to fix it; he was the only one who could. Sam wasn't innocent. He'd screwed up, made huge mistakes, hurt himself and others and cut himself off from everyone who cared about him. Ruby made sure of that.

The difference between Sam and Dean had been that Sam tried to atone for his sins---still was trying---where Dean buried his, too afraid to face them, and too afraid to face Sam's. But, he'd never _hated_ Sam. He wasn't wired to hate his little brother. He'd just been angry and stupid enough to speak without thinking. Without remembering that Sam took everything he said as gospel, always had. Sam had never outgrown that. So, when he heard Dean say that he was going to send him away because of the demon blood, he'd believed every word he was hearing, and had drawn completely the wrong conclusion.

Maybe Dean could time-travel back to that day. Punch himself in the mouth before Sam heard anything.

Yeah, Dean had mistakes to fix, and he had to fix them if he ever wanted to put his family back together.

It all hinged on _finding_ _Sam_, though. The kid was good. So far, he'd covered his trail like the pro. Dean was always two steps behind. He wondered if Sam knew he was being followed, or if he thought he was alone, and just being careful. Every place Dean searched was spotless, devoid of any trace of Sam's existence. Trail as cold as dad's had so frequently been, a lifetime before.

Part of Dean was positive that if Sam knew Dean was chasing him, he'd turn and face him. Sam had always been that way. Fearless, just like their dad. Sam never backed down from a fight, whether he was right or wrong. Cold Spring proved that.

Another part of him, a frightened part, wasn't so sure. Maybe Sam left no traces behind because he simply wasn't there. Sam could be dead, killed by some monster's hand…or his own. Rumors that passed through the hunting community often stayed in circulation long after the source was dust.

Dean shook the thought away. No. Sam was alive. Sam was out there, atoning for sins he'd more than made up for already. Dean would find him. Find him and apologize and force him to stop this crazy penance. Beg him to come home.

He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, sitting and letting the engine warm up in the cool weather. His eyes drifted to the highway and the distant horizon where Clarkstown waited.

"Slow down, Sammy. Let me catch up. Please."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam didn't slow down. Dean didn't catch up.

Instead, the hunting life, in all its lack of glory, caught up with Dean the way he'd always kind of figured it would.

A simple poltergeist in an old hotel; should have been an in-and-out job. Castiel had even offered to go with him, but it didn't feel right. They'd hunted a few times together—not the focused, Sam-might-be-here-this-time hunts, but the bigger ones: wendigos and shapeshifters, ones that could get him killed if he was alone—but Dean had never been comfortable with it. And these days, Castiel was harder to track down, busy rebuilding the ranks of the angels who'd been loyal, establishing new priorities.

Dean had a niggling suspicion the angel had been part of the problem, anyway. He figured how things must have looked to Sam, Castiel usurping his place as Dean's partner…as if anyone ever could. But even more than that, it seemed wrong to have anyone in the passenger seat when_ Sam_ should be there, giving himself a headache reading while Dean drove, singing along—badly—to whatever songs he knew, sleeping the way he usually did, head flopped in a way that always looked painful, body sprawled across the seat.

No one belonged there but Sam.

Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that Dean _really _could have used some backup on this case. Getting slammed into walls was nothing new…or mirrors…or pushed down a flight of stairs. But when the massive china hutch wobbled, crashing before he could scramble out of the way, he had time to think, "Well, that's never happened before," just as the lights went out.

He found out later—_days _later, fresh from a splenectomy and trussed up in traction with a fractured pelvis, broken leg, and a grade 3 concussion—that the hotel owner had watched everything happen from the safety of the front lawn, which meant she was able to call for an ambulance. When Dean finally was able to reach her on his cell, she let him know she'd boarded up the windows and locked the doors and the historic Fair Acres Inn was no longer open for business. Meaning the poltergeist could wait. Indefinitely.

One small relief, at least.

It didn't help the pain in his head though…or chest or back or leg or Hell, his fingers, which weren't even bruised but ached anyway in sympathy. Bobby swore at him long and loudly when he called, telling Dean he'd be there the next day at latest with one breath and that if he died of a heart attack on the way it would be all Dean's fault with the next.

Dean drifted after that, phone lax in his hands and thinking he heard his brother's voice between the steady beeps of the cardiac monitor, telling him everything would be okay.

He woke to someone changing out his IV. The guy didn't notice he was being stared at, at first, and jumped about a foot when Dean cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at him. "You'd better not be the one giving me my sponge bath."

Things sort of went downhill, after that.

In TV shows, people always bounced back from massive injuries like they were nothing. Knocked out? Groan a little bit when you come to and then keep on chasing the bad guys. Break a bone? The cast is off by the next episode. Emergency surgery? Smile when you wake up, have some ice cream, and you're back on the beat the next day.

In reality, things were much, much harder. The main issue was how long Dean had to stay in the hospital. Bobby got an earful when he walked in on the doctor telling Dean it would be a week at minimum, and that was if he didn't need further surgery on his leg. Dean railed against it, but there was no give, _not if you want to walk again. _And, of course, for the first time since he was a kid, his real name was on his ID, which made a clandestine escape trickier, even if Bobby had been supportive. Which he most definitely was not.

The other issue tied right back into the doctor's warning. Walking again was not a given, either way. At least, not without a limp and plenty of residual pain. Physical therapy was a must, no negotiation. Which didn't seem so bad until it actually came time to _do_ it.

Liz, his physical therapist, was a sadist. There was no other word for it. He'd thought, upon seeing her in all her five-foot-nothing wonder, mouse-brown hair and librarian glasses making her look like some shy school marm, his Winchester charm would be enough to have her wrapped around his finger before he even knew her name.

Such was not the case. She didn't talk much, wouldn't let him distract her with jokes or rambling, sort-of, maybe-a-little true stories. She pushed him and pulled him and worked him until the sweat was running down his face and he was half a breath from either crying or punching her in the face. He'd never been in a situation where his body betrayed him so completely before. It sucked. It sucked _a lot._

He broke down at one point. Not the tears that had threatened a time or two, but a…well, there was really no word for it but tantrum. Two weeks into what was supposed to be a one-week stint, and a setback with the pins in his leg had put him back to square one with his walking. And he was _furious_. And so damned scared. What did a hunter do who couldn't walk? What did a _person_ do? He wouldn't be able to go back to working at a garage. Hell, he wouldn't be able to _drive._ And forget about finding Sam…

The PT room had exploded then. Flying crutches, kicked therapy balls, a hurled weight set that had shattered a corner of the room's long mirrored wall. Dean felt like he had when he'd taken a crowbar to the Impala all those years ago, full of rage and frustration and confusion and fear. By the time it was over, he was spent, limp in his wheelchair, wanting nothing more than to go back to his room, fall asleep, and maybe never wake up.

He'd forgotten Liz was even there by then, grateful that no other patients were in the room when he was, that no one had been witness to his utter loss of control.

"Feel better?"

Her voice shocked him. Dean turned to look at her, embarrassed and still angry and ready to pounce if she said _anything _to him about what he'd just done.

But she didn't. She gathered the crutches, straightened the weights, returned the balls to their rightful place. And then put her hands gently on his bad leg, warm and strong. "How about we just start with a couple of stretches?"

For reasons he was never sure of, even long after, Dean agreed.

She started taking him back to his room after that instead of letting the orderly do it, watching TV when he was in the mood for company and just sitting with him, next to his bed, when he wasn't. They started talking, eventually, sharing little pieces of themselves; the ones—for Dean at least—that didn't give too much away. There was so much he thought she'd never understand.

By the time he'd graduated to outpatient status, they'd taken to eating lunch together before his session. He changed his PT schedule so they could keep up with it, even about when he was back at Bobby's and the commute alone could have warranted finding another clinic. Bobby never grumbled, even though he had to play chauffeur; in fact, Dean caught him grinning once or twice on the drives home, for no explicable reason.

Liz took him out for a celebratory dinner the night after his last appointment, when he'd finally been given a mostly clean bill of health and his walking-running-driving status was back to go.

It surprised him when he found himself telling her about Sam. And, over the course of more dinners, his parents and hunting and even, in carefully worded language, demon blood and Hell and the Apocalypse. She'd taken a few days to absorb those, but hadn't run screaming. Had asked him questions, instead, and offered sympathy, and, most shockingly of all, _believed._

And maybe that's when he started to let Sam go. It wasn't a conscious choice, at least initially, but more a product of the three years that had gone by with no contact, without even coming close to pinning Sam down. Dean had been knocked to the ground and rebuilt himself—with Liz's help—and he couldn't help but think that maybe Sam had done the same thing.

Dean had always teased Sam for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but the opposite was closer to the truth: Sam buried things deep, especially guilt and doubt in himself, and he had a hard time letting things go, even when he had every reason to. Sam shoved things down where they couldn't hurt him, couldn't interfere…but they never went away. Dean used to be able to help with that. But in Sam's mind, at least, Dean didn't want to help anymore. Blamed Sam. Didn't want them to be brothers anymore.

As much as Dean wanted, _needed,_ to make his peace with Sam, he couldn't force it. Maybe Sam had found a way to survive that left him better off than rattling around Bobby's place, a ghost of himself. Maybe Dean shouldn't try to take that away from him.

Not comfortable thoughts, by a long shot. But, over time, thoughts that started to grow.

It didn't surprise anyone when Dean asked Liz, five months later, if she'd marry him. And it surprised them even less when she said yes.

With a wedding to plan and a future to forge—a real future, one with the possibility of kids and old age, and if nothing else, a _home_—Dean took the final step. Said goodbye to his brother, hoped in his heart their paths would one day cross again, and moved on.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_I don't want to fight._

The words rang in Dean's ears for a moment. He and Sam had fought a lot in the last two years they'd been together. First as Sam let Ruby manipulate him, and later after Sam had unleashed the Apocalypse and almost destroyed everything.

Dean had had a lot of time to think back over those times. Too much time. He knew he could have handled it better.

And he knew that Bobby was right: he could have treated Sam better, too.

Over the last few years, on the road searching, and finally meeting Liz, Dean had thought more than once that if he'd controlled his mouth a little better, Sam might not have left. He knew Sam had overheard that argument with Bobby about sending Sam away.

God, how Dean wished he could do that day over again.

Liz had always been confident that Dean would get another chance. Like Sam had once, she had faith. Hope. Dean always nodded along whenever she talked about it, but found he had little trust in either.

_Now's your second chance, Dean_. He took another step forward, realizing that the silence was stretching and sensing that Sam was about to resume walking.

"I've missed you."

Dean blinked. Not what he'd meant to say. Not the way he'd envisioned this moment.

Sam seemed to be thinking the same thing, judging by the way he tensed and barely stopped himself from turning around. Dean decided to let the comment hang and press on.

"You, uh…you look good." Another unrehearsed remark…and pretty stupid, considering that all Dean could see was a dark silhouette. Still, Sam was in one piece. That was good. He waited for Sam to say something, hoping the conversation would get less awkward. Sam didn't disappoint.

"You, too."

It wasn't much. But, Sam hadn't bolted yet. Dean wasn't sure he could run fast enough in his dress shoes, so he hoped it stayed that way. "Sammy…where've you been?"

Three years was a long period to cover with such a vague question, but they had to start somewhere. Sam didn't comment on that, just shrugged slightly. "All over."

Dean stepped closer again, now within arm's reach. He couldn't take the suspense anymore. "Jesus, Sammy…aren't you even going to look at me?"

That got a small sigh. Not exasperation, Dean could tell, but resignation. Sam slowly pivoted so that he was turned halfway toward Dean, but not so much that he couldn't still escape. The skittishness bothered Dean, but he had learned a few things on his own.

Like how to take what he could get.

In the faint light, he could make out Sam's face, which looked more or less the way he remembered. Somewhat pinched, older. Harder. The eyes were sad, though, more than Dean had ever seen them, even after Jessica. So much that it gave his brother an utterly hopeless expression.

A scar ran along Sam's forehead. Dean could see it disappeared into his hairline. It made him wince. Sam had been hurt---apparently badly. Had he been alone? Had some stranger helped him in Dean's absence? The thought sickened him.

"Liz is beautiful." Sam said quietly, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He avoided Dean's eyes.

"Thanks." Dean frowned at the formality the conversation was creeping toward. "She's great."

Sam glanced uneasily at the brick wall beside them, vaguely in the direction of the ball room. "She knows a _lot_ of people."

Dean couldn't help but huff a laugh. "I know. I think I'm totally out of my league in there."

"You're doing fine, so far." Sam replied softly, a hint of pride in his tone.

Smile fading, Dean nodded at the compliment. He couldn't keep up the small talk anymore. "Why'd you leave?"

Might as well get to the point.

Sam visibly flinched. Apparently, he hadn't been prepared for Final Jeopardy. His mouth moved, silently, like a drowning fish, for a few long moments. Almost comical, if there had been anything funny about it.

Finally, Sam's head dropped. The whisper that came out was almost lost in the night breeze. "I had to."

Dean grimaced. He was trying to take it easy, but years of anger and loneliness were hard to repress for long. "You gotta do better than that."

Sam glanced up at him, but didn't pull back the way Dean feared he might. He just nodded mournfully.

"I…couldn't drag you down with me, anymore, Dean," Sam spoke quietly, eyes unfocussed, staring unseeingly at some point on Dean's chest. "You were going to send me away, anyway. It was easier to just--- I didn't want to add another burden to---"

Sam broke off and stared at Dean for a moment, searching, and then glanced away, defeat showing on his face. Apparently, he'd expected…something else.

Dean's patience suddenly ran out. He'd run this moment over and over in his head, all those empty months on the road. All that silence in the Impala. This wasn't the way he'd imagined it, and Sam looked ready to give up and leave.

So, Dean went off script, and did what he should have done four years earlier. He moved forward and slammed Sam into the wall, hard, pinning him. Confronting his brother the way he'd been too afraid to when it counted.

"No, Sam. No. I didn't wait this long for _cryptic_." Sam looked back at him with dull eyes, clearly expecting this, and surrendering to his fate---whatever he thought that would be.

"We both know what I did," Sam sighed. "What I was responsible for. You deserved better than to have to watch after a freak. You still do."

"You're not a freak, Sam." Dean said forcefully. Sam looked surprised for a moment, then grateful. Still hopeless, but grateful, as though Dean was just offering a platitude. When Sam didn't continue, Dean pressed ahead.

"I found the note." Dean had it in his pocket. He still read it every now and then. Over and over. The ink was smeared from handling. The last words Sam had ever said to him.

Sam's face grew impossibly sadder. "I'm sorry, Dean. I couldn't let you keep living like that."

"Like _what_?"

"You wanted to move on. You _deserved_ to move on. No one earned it more than you," Sam said, a hint of his old passionate nature showing. Adamant in his beliefs. Dean had almost forgotten what that Sam was like. "But, I was holding you back. Nothing could make up for what I did, and I wasn't going to force you to give up anything else."

"Sam---"

"You were right to want me gone. I scared you. I was scared of me, too. And, I was so tired of hurting you, Dean. I knew you wouldn't have the future you wanted if you got dragged along with me, if you had to keep paying for _my_ mistakes."

"Sam, damn it---"

"So, when I heard you and Bobby arguing, I knew---"

"Sam!" Dean cut him off, pushing him against the wall to get his attention. "I never wanted you to go."

Sam just stared at him a moment, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief and back again. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, broken again. "What?"

"That day…the argument, it was—I just wanted you to get better. I was going to take you to Missouri, see if she could help you. I knew I wasn't getting through. I thought—I thought if I left you with her for a while, she could help you get past everything."

Dean watched Sam process that, watched him look away and frown, reviewing the memories, maybe. Sam liked to put everything under a microscope. Most important, though, he could tell Sam believed him. Sam always believed him.

His brother considered the revelation for a few long moments, but when he looked back, Dean only saw more resignation in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. I was right." Sam chuckled at that. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "I was finally right about something. Look at you. You're happy. You're finally getting what _you_ want. No chasing me around anymore."

Dean snarled, the old resentment resurfacing again unwillingly. "I chased you for _three years_, Sam. I was never fast enough to catch up."

Sam gaped at him, appalled…which answered another old question Dean had, actually. Sam hadn't known he was being followed. He'd thought he was alone all that time. Dean didn't like thinking about that, Sam on his own, following some lonely mission of redemption he'd sentenced himself to.

"Why?" Sam breathed. He looked honestly confused, as if the notion that someone would _want_ to follow him was so unusual. Dean didn't have words for how that made him feel. How he'd let his brother fall so far.

"Because you're my _brother_, Sam."

Sam shook his head slowly. "I'm just another monster, Dean. You're better off without me."

Dean sagged in defeat, letting his arms drop. He wasn't getting through. Maybe Sam was too far gone. Maybe Dean had missed his opportunity years ago. Too little, too late.

Sam seemed to agree. He straightened, and moved slowly away. "I just—I just wanted to see Liz once. To see you happy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to screw this up, too."

His brother waited a moment, then slowly turned to walk away. Dean couldn't move. He didn't know what to say. He never had.

The last thing Dean expected then was to hear a voice inside his head. _Tell him, baby. Tell him NOW. This is your last chance._

Missouri. Despite the odd sensation of her intruding into his thoughts, he wasn't surprised. Or ungrateful. Just at a loss.

He looked up. Sam was walking away, looking like a condemned man. Dean looked back at the ground where his brother had just stood. What could he say? How was he supposed to fix things? He thought about Sam's note. He thought about the emotion he'd seen beneath the self-loathing words. He remembered how it ended.

Desperation crept up on him, and he said something he couldn't remember ever saying out loud. Something he should have said long ago. He called out to the retreating shadow.

"I love you, Sammy. Please…_don't go_."

It was his last card.

A long moment passed. He heard no response, and tears suddenly slipped from his eyes. His last chance had come and gone and he'd blown it. Again.

Another moment went by, and Dean looked up at the empty walkway…which wasn't so empty. Sam was standing, frozen, a dozen feet away. His head was turned, and Dean could see his eyes were wet, but he wasn't moving.

Dean took his chance. He moved over in front of his brother and embraced him, scooping him up before he could retreat again. "I missed you, so much."

Sam didn't seem able to move for a while, but Dean didn't let go. Slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, Dean felt Sam's arms wrap around his back, tight.

"Dean…."

They were breaking the Winchester rule about chick-flicks, but Dean didn't care. He'd discarded those rules a long time back, anyway. He held on to Sam as hard as he could. Not because one of them was hurt, not because one of them was back from the dead, just because they were brothers who'd been apart far too long. Sam was crying, but Dean couldn't exactly make any cracks about that right then. "You don't have to run anymore, little brother. Come home."

Dean realized with astonishment that for once _home_ wasn't referring to a car, or a motel, or even Bobby's. He was talking about this. Just him and Sam. For the first time in three years, Dean felt like they could both come home.

Sam sniffled against Dean's tuxedo jacket. "I don't know what to do. I can't make anything up to you."

"You don't owe me anything. We'll figure it out…the rest."

He assumed Sam still had his powers, that he was still hunting. It was long past time for him to join Dean in retirement.

"You don't have to do this, Dean…."

Dean didn't let go. "I want to. But…do you?"

They just held onto each other for a while, silent. It seemed neither knew what else to say. Dean wasn't going to rush it. Eventually, Sam shifted in his arms, pressing his forehead into Dean's shoulder and huffed. It came out in a sob. "You're such a girl, man."

Dean didn't miss a beat. "You better not tell anybody about this, bitch."

Sam laughed, honest to God laughed. Dean hadn't heard that in a long, long time. He patted Sam's back and pulled away, keeping his hands on Sam's arms. "Will you stay?"

Sam nodded with a shrug. "If--- If you want."

Dean nodded. It took Sam a moment to decide, but he nodded back. Dean grinned and gently guided Sam around. They walked slowly down the path, toward the building this time. His brother walked at his side, slowly, still uncertain. Dean knew they had a lot of work ahead of them. A lot of bridges to rebuild. Things wouldn't return to the way they were overnight, but Sam was _here_. He seemed to be honest about staying. That's all Dean could ask.

For now, Dean decided to go slow. "I've got to introduce you to Liz."

Sam hesitated, looking wary. That skittish posture returned. "I—She…doesn't know anything about me. I wouldn't want to have to lie—"

"She knows everything." Dean returned, putting confidence in his voice. He hoped it would sound reassuring. "She's wanted to meet you for a long time."

Sam looked at him, surprised. "Everything?"

Dean nodded. "Hunting, demons, Mom and Dad. Everything."

The look on Sam's face faded to incredulity, with a touch of his old sarcasm glinting in his eyes. "You're such a _rotten_ secret-keeper, Dean. First Cassie, now Liz!"

Dean had missed that sense of humor. He took up the gauntlet. "You should have seen the look on her face when she met Castiel. She didn't run for the hills when I told her all this, either. That was really something."

"She must not know about you keeping your socks in the sink, yet."

"Nah, she loves it. It's part of my charm." He shot back smugly.

"You found a very forgiving woman, Dean."

As they neared the door to the ballroom, they slowed to a stop. Sam looked about a terrified as Dean had ever seen him.

"Dean, I don't think I can do this…."

Dean regarded his brother, drinking in the sight of him after so long. There were people in there Sam hadn't seen in years. People he wasn't sure would forgive him. Dean knew otherwise. He kept his arm across Sam's back and nudged him forward gently. "I've got your back, bro. We can do this together."

He'd let Sam forget that once. Dean didn't plan on letting that happen again. He opened the door and went through with Sam. "Welcome home, Sammy."

END


End file.
